


He Aims, He Misses

by Daastan_Go



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gallows Humor, Gen, Language, Morbid, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16436819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go
Summary: All according to plan . . . or maybe not.





	He Aims, He Misses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. This fiction is written for the sake of pleasure.
> 
> Warning: Violence and Morbid Content.

# # # # # #

He would be interred, with cold hands, into a deep ditch. That was his fate. He had cast aside the ideals lifted to a sacrosanct doctrine in the Village, amongst his people. What an evil man, just lying there on the wet stones that had been merged together, by the deft hands of his people, into a sturdy floor—empty eyes gathering rain as they stared at something in the sky. What was he thinking now? A smile flickered across Sasuke’s lips. Dead men did not think; they did not feel; they did not . . . hope.

Gone was his cruel older brother. Evil. Evil. Evil. He could not think of anything else to define the emotionless white in his eyes and that blank expression that told nothing. Red was cast aside by his skin and eyes; death had taken it from him. It took everything from Men and left them empty husks to be put into the graves for pretty funeral rites, a bit of tears, and a maudlin show of grief and black garments.

What did he think of him in his final moments? Did it . . . hurt? He winced. The smile trembled there on the lips, reddened by the scourge of nature, threatening to fade slowly with a torturous rise in weakness. It was spreading in his limbs, festering there, struggling to crunch through his feeble resolve, to stand with his back to the stone-wall that bore his clan's symbol in defiance.

It was still standing: Uchiha pride—his pride. He would never let it fall. Curse him, damn him, the ugly and evil child from fates. Greed and hate had enticed his older vestal soul, courted it beneath the fluttering sheets made of filth, raced it to a heated crescendo of rapture most Men knew. He had taken everything from him and left toys of sorrow in his empty hands. He was empty. There was nothing in the world he could call his own.

He bent his head awkwardly to look behind, but it was impossible to stare at a lifeless wall and the grooves, which made the symbol, with his back to it. He took in a sharp breath, whiffing smoke, wet earth, and flora. Rain was still falling, and his eyes traced countless drops that ran out of his brother's shiny eyes and went into his black hair. There was little blood there in the corner of his slightly-parted lips. Rain could not dilute it into a lovely pink of life. It had dried there, plastered to his skin now. His skin was whiter than he remembered, his hair as black as a moonless, undisturbed night. He was a perfect toy. Dead. Used. Gone.

What did he feel now? He did not know. He did not  _want_  to know. He took one step, his feet unable to carry his monstrous weight and leant over, his sandals scuffing on the stones.  _Make sure, Sasuke—make sure_ , he heard a whisper echo in his head louder than the crash of thunder; and so he stared, looking deep into his eyes without the red. He could not make red come over, rise above his trembling spirit. It was sleeping peacefully. His brother was sleeping, too . . . like a babe.

No blood coursed from his befuddled mind through the throbbing arteries, to the shuddering heart that was caught in a web of surety and denials, anger and happiness, loss, and maybe, a bit of lingering love. But, surely, this was a triumph—a big one. He had aimed and had not missed. Evil, evil child, it lay dead after its misdeeds; it had paid for its cruel tricks. A trickster child, a naughty child, its playtime was over. Gone was the sun. Gone was his life. Gone was the hope for a new morrow—nothing, no more.

He took another step, still making sure, still counting down the time. His dead brother had not blinked. His skin was growing whiter, harder. There was no colour in his lips anymore. A gentle rain was still falling, and the sky was lashed by venous lightning, which pumped strength into the dark veil thrown upon its visage; and his heart still evoked an indifference plagued with little seeds of past love, little seedlings that would grow and burrow out of the ground to become  _something_  inside him. He did not know. He did not  _want_  to know.

A black sort of mass came over his vision. He toppled forward but turned just in time before the floor met his face. His back hit the floor with a wet smack. He did not feel anything. His consciousness was going. He was fading. He would join him . . . maybe it was always meant to be this way.

The tinkling rain was cold on his cheeks and breast. It would not stop—no sound broke its melody. Wave after wave of chill rushed through his body. Was this . . . it? He did not know how to feel. Everyone he knew was gone: the parents he loved—the brother he loved the most. He had killed him now with his own hands and felt little remorse in the bloody victory. He had smiled over his corpse, and he was still smiling, though the numbness in his body and face was making it so hard. He had to forcefully contort his face to do so.

It still gave him a sense of thrill. Gone. Dead. Gone. He wanted to look at that white face, frozen by the chill of death, one last time. So he twisted his back and lifted his battered body on one elbow. His head hung down in exhaustion, and he blinked away the cool raindrops to focus his vision on the deep cracks in the stones. He could see a bit better now. Then he heard something, a faint sound, and he slowly lifted his head to look beyond the mist and the holes raindrops relentlessly wrought in its wispy form.

There, beyond the frail mist, stood his former teacher. He could see red in the left eye there. His own resonated with it and throbbed to pump chakra into the veins there. Chakra spun and created something he could not understand, and suddenly, something black engulfed the man. A loud soul-chilling scream filled his ears, slightly muffled by the sudden crack of lightning. He could smell his teacher's flesh sizzling. It was such a putrid stench. That guy, who could make Mokuton, came running. He struck an odd posture he had often seen all-revealing harlots make, to show customers their wet cunnies, and a few feeble branches popped out of the ground like daisies. They shot in Kakashi's direction, who was as good as dead now and quickly turning to ashes.

The wood caught fire, and he took to his heels, cancelling the tech and waving his arms about to shrug off his jacket. He knocked a girl, with rather corpulent breasts, into the mud in his frantic run. Her face landed in the sludge, and she could not get up. A white-as-chalk guy did a few quick hand-movements and fancy birds popped out of his scrolls. Konoha was using struggling artists as Shinobi now? He huffed out a short laugh.

More black shadows came running and screaming, but Kakashi had stopped rolling on the wet ground several minutes ago. Desperate. Foolish. No more screams. The sounds stopped so suddenly; and the cool rain falling upon the stones and crackling thunder were so loud again. Only muddy ashes were left where he had stopped struggling. With difficulty, and a great pain from his back, he turned his neck and looked into his brother's face: Itachi had meant to kill Kakashi?  _What the fuck?_   _Why?_ he thought, making an odd face. His brother always was a  _loony_ , but not  _this_  loony! It made no sense for the nutter to slip in such a clumsy way. And when he heard a bone pop there with heat, he cringed. Oh, well, Kakashi was baked and cooked and charred for good. He looked like a few lumps of coal on the ground, for fuck's sake!

A gentle breeze blew into his face, and he stared back at the weeping faces he could see a bit clearly now: Naruto was wailing and looking in his direction, and Sakura was bawling with thick, viscous snot running down her nose. He could have sworn he saw it slip into her mouth when she parted it wide, like a big fish, to let out an ear-splitting scream. She even gulped it down without shame. He cringed again. His vision swayed one more time, and he suddenly fainted when pliant plant-like hands grabbed his body. The flames had yet to go out . . .

And somewhere in the darkness, Tobi yelled, laughing: "miss me, miss me, now you gotta kiss me, Itachi—or not!"

# # # # # #

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> EN: Itachi had left what the data-book calls a "Transcription Seal: Amaterasu" in Sasuke's eye. It's a Mangekyō Sharingan technique that allows for a Sharingan tech to be used with a "delayed effect”: Madara had planted Izanagi in his own eye; Itachi had planted an Amaterasu in Sasuke's eye and had programmed it to react to Obito's Sharingan. Keep that in mind that Kakashi has Obito's Sharingan, and Itachi didn't have any idea that Kakashi had Obito's missing Sharingan-eye.
> 
> But, then again, he was adamant that Obito was Madara, too. Itachi truly was a genius amongst geniuses! Yes, that was sarcasm.


End file.
